


what rules the twist of light

by vaec (aosc)



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Assassin's Creed: Unity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-25 12:51:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2622431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aosc/pseuds/vaec
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a while, Arno balances upon the ledge of the balcony, on the scale between desires, suspended in time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what rules the twist of light

**Author's Note:**

> slice of life, gratitious nonsense, because post-game _feelings_. this is spoiler-free. you're safe, i swear, i've nestled out everything that could be a spoiler and done away with it. shoo. there. also, am i seriously going to be doing a first for a ship in a fandom? here's a thing i never imagined.

* * *

 

"We are in the midst of war, and yet, the world seems at a stand still."

 

Napoleon isn't much for introspective philosophy. He is of the firm belief that yes, to gain understanding, respect, and success, one must know every nook and cranny of oneself. However, he isn't prone to musing, getting lost in thought and marveling at the various romantic aspects of life. They are at the height of Enlightenment, and for society to keep moving forward, one most lose the notions that sunlight filters through the crown of a tree _beautifully_ , and instead strategically look upon the sun to derive at which hour it will sink below zenit, so that one may not perish from dehydration in the midst of a siege outside the Palais-Royal.

 

"Does it?" he replies, and looks up from the bleakly illustrated map of Italy he is studying, watching Arno's tall figure at the window, overlooking the, no doubt, peaceful courtyard. "I imagine not much calamity would happen to find itself in my courtyard," he adds, quirking an eyebrow at the assassin, who turns around to look at him. _Oh, that posture of his_ , Napoleon thinks. It would ruin regiments on its own, and it is truly a shame that the French militia will never get the chance to employ someone such as Arno. He smiles, showcasing a neat row of white teeth, his body half turned towards where Napoleon is situated, and he is all squared shoulders, fingers knotted orderly by the low of his back, amused lines.

 

"I see quite a lot of the city," Arno remarks, "In stretches you could almost imagine it's -- well, certainly not peaceful, but not quite at war, either."

 

"If this regime could agree an armistice with the revolutionaries, I might yet believe God has not abandoned this country," Napoleon replies, wry. He puts away the ruler he has used to measure the distance from Corsica to Naples, and folds his arms.

 

Arno tuts. "So young, and yet so serious," he says, tuning a heavy accent on his words, as though he speaks from a quotation. "I once heard someone describe me as such," the assassin supplies, when Napoleon offers no return. "You'd claim that prize from me, though."

 

Napoleon chuckles. "Young? My dear friend, a man at war has no age, merely the next day, and if he's lucky; the one beyond that."

 

Arno has crossed the room, and comes to rest his forearms on the top of the chair opposing Napoleon, just before his desk, and looks beneath eyelashes at him. "He also has a weapon," he points out. "Also, Captain Bernadotte tells me you've not yet passed twenty five, which means, firstly, that I'm your senior. And secondly, that your military prowess is greater than you like to relay."

 

Napoleon lets his eyes rake the assassin's face; the literal silver lining of scar running beneath his eye, a strong nose, cut cheeks, and two days' worth of stubble darkening the length of his jaw. "Congratulations, on your date of birth," he says, with a small smile. "A fine accomplishment at the capricious hands of fate."

 

Arno barks a laugh. "Yes," he agrees, and twists around the chair to slouch into it with a kind of practiced ease Napoleon has not witnessed on anyone else. In fact, not anything about Arno is as anything Napoleon has ever seen on another man. He walks so silently, the soft soles of his boots incredible to not -- seemingly, wear. His swordsmanship is unorthodox, though not wholly unfamiliar. It has influences, medieval, modern, and he twists his sword in ways that reminds Napoleon of drills he has seen performed by Syrian warriors, and the utmost of fencing champions. Arno kills efficiently, brutally if need be, and it fascinates Napoleon to no end with the _grace_ he manages to do it. He can also fold himself almost in two, and duck just so out of an enemy's span of arms, in the singularity of a second come up from behind, and snap the neck where it branches up from the spine to the skull. A remarkable showcase of the possibilities of the body, and the mind, should they work so effortlessly when conjoined.

 

"Humor me," Napoleon finds himself saying, suddenly. "The courtyard should be empty at this time of day, lest a servant passes by, and I have been positively dying for an accomplished sparring partner."

 

Arno looks momentarily taken aback at the request, as though the notion is absurd, but soon lets it melt away in the face of a softer, almost coy, tilt to his expression. "As you wish, _Commandant,_ " he says, and rises, smooth, smooth. Napoleon is not a man steeped in romanticism, in the notion that the pure aesthetics of the world merits much thought. But of course he simply can't not observe the cuts and planes of a man of Arno's pedigree, as he follows the assassin out of his study, coming up at his side in the round of the staircase, and down into the breeze outside that begets the stale sky.

 

Arno crosses the courtyard, only stopping when he reaches its far end, in the midst of the palette of grass edging the farthest wing. It is secluded, empty, and backed comfortably into a corner, a tiny scale of the Cour d'honneur, and shaded by a tall tree. _Clever_ , Napoleon has the time to think of the scene, which seems apt for someone who uses all the environment at his disposal in a fight, before the sharp noise of metal scraping leaves him scrambling for the hilt of his own sword, swaying at his hip. He manages to fence it up just to parry as Arno lunges in towards him, striking. It is much too late, however, and Napoleon feels the force of the blow drive him on the balls of his feet, reverberate through both of his wrists; his clumsy two handed grip on the slim hilt of his rapier a clear disadvantage against a foe -- a simple sparring partner though he may be -- who has both weight and height to his advantage. Napoleon sidesteps left, wrenching himself out of the close encounter. Arno twists on his heel, a shadow of movement and strategic thought, and Napoleon barely has enough time to adjust his grip, before the assassin strikes below and up, sending the edge of his backsword raking shrilly against Napoleon's. Arno pushes, puts weight into his arm, and Napoleon is mindful of the way their swords press, of his own footwork, and is careful as to not misstep when he is eventually forced backwards.

 

He can recall with clarity the layout of the courtyard, and so he knows that to his left, a few meters still, is the tree, and to his right and across, is the wall. It is many a time aiding, his eidetic memory, but not now.

 

His ears ring when he crosses his own path and tilts direction, and the blunt point of force where the swords are locked shift. A few steps, the hairs at the nape of his neck already wet with perspiration, and his spine curves up towards the tree, not ungently, as though Arno takes great care, these last few breaths before he would surely spring an obscured weapon into one of many, momentarily unguarded, vital areas. Napoleon meets Arno's gaze, and rather than dark with intent, it is full with mirth. Pure, anadulterated, as though he has mined _this_. "Having fun?" he murmurs into the space between them that is scarce and full with his own breathing, and feels his own heartbeat, quick, dull. Arno grins in response.

 

Then he vaults back, twists his fingers into the knuckle guard and buries his sword in the grass with grand motion, and disappears into Napoleon's right peripheral.

 

Upon seeing a live man scale the relatively flat sandstone wall of his home's corps de logis, Napoleon should not feel very much. But oh, he positively  _aches,_ upon emerging from beneath the obscuring crown of the tree, to see Arno fling himself from a pilaster to the little balcony on the second floor. The assassin stays balancing his bent legs underneath him, one hand curved to fit the finical smitheries of the balcony's rail, and one free in the air. He twists, eventually, to look at Napoleon, before propelling himself up to crouch on the ledge. Napoleon lets his sword hand drop, and uses the other to wipe the excess of sweat from his forehead, smoothing hair out of his vision.

 

"Incredible," he breathes, mostly to his own audience. Arno's grin, teetering maniacal, edging dangerous, stretches wide on his face, encompassing truly everything about him that Napoleon finds enthralling. He sways, precariously, yet controlled, seemingly torn between two decisions set widely apart upon the very edge. And for a while, he balances there, his body a curve of coiled strength; on the scale between desires, suspended in time. They both seem to wait, cradle a breathless moment between themselves, up until the very moment where it slips astray, seemingly decided --

 

Napoleon isn't gifted with such foresight that he can move out of Arno's trajectory, such as it finds itself, when the assassin without sign nor warning flings himself off the ledge, a mere blur as he comes down in a fashion of hard limbs and solid weight.

 

He registers, eventually, through the flimsy edges of his vision, and through his lungs, though pressing, that Arno isn't sprawled atop him, so much as bracketing Napoleon's body beneath him. His one knee between Napoleon's legs, the other pressed at his thigh, and both his hands, judged by the sheer radiating warmth, are both planted by the sides of his throat. "And here I thought that surely, the difference wouldn't be so palpable," he says, somewhat troubled, and looks up into Arno's face, framed darkly, the tie usually keeping his hair haphazardly tangled and askew in one undone button of his shirt. Napoleon has trouble breathing, though, he hopes, that would be mostly due to having had the wind knocked out of him rather by force.

 

Arno chuckles. "You're a lucky man," he says, and raises his right arm a little. The mechanism of his wrist blade clicks, and it retracts sharply. Napoleon's breath stocks in his throat. "In war, luck is half in everything," he breathes, and reaches up, to tangle his fingers in Arno's hair, almost wondrous. Arno leans into it, into him -- a contradictory feel, nothing at all like the thick curves of Désirée's body, but only broad muscle to the touch.

 

"You certainly are a force of nature, Arno Dorian," Napoleon says, and tilts his head up, his mouth into Arno's.

 

It is uncalculated, venturing into foreign territory, but Napoleon knows that also France, once, was foreign to him. Arno hums into the kiss, body stretching out languidly. He kisses with leisure and assure, as though it is to him conceptually familiar, and presses down into Napoleon -- presses into the kiss, a flash of teeth catching on his upper lip, fingers coming to knot in the hairs at the nape of his neck. Napoleon groans, breaking open, swearing by Christ, that this man may become his undoing.

 

Arno breaks off, breathing wetly, a seldom light to his eyes. "Well," he murmurs, "Only the impossible should be admired."

 

* * *

 


End file.
